In 1986 when I was 23, my parents divorced and my mother, brother, sister and I moved to the city of Fontana which was about 30 miles from where I grew up. 

We were really struggling just to keep the lights on in those days, so I began to work full time at a Jack in the Box, about five miles from our home.  I couldn't afford a car, so I had to walk to and from work, along two roads that were all but deserted.  The one I took to go home was just a two lane road, surrounded by old run down sheds, barns, and a house about every half mile, some occupied, some not, which intersected another stretch of asphalt. It was a run down, two-lane highway that had seen better days.  

Across the street from where I was walking, were rows and rows of old dead grapevines, remnants of the vineyards that used to populate the area.  On the side of the road that I was on, was an old chicken farm, hidden by the large, overgrown oleander bushes which completely hid the fence.

At the end of the road was a hill just big enough you couldn't see a car coming, nor the intersection just past it.  I was about a hundred yards or so away when a guy in white work truck slowed down to match my pace and asked me, "You want a ride?"

"No, I'm almost home," I said. But, instead of driving on, he sped up ahead of me and turned his truck sideways into the dirt, blocking my way.

My first thought was, "I told him I didn't want a ride."

I watched him get out of his truck and look around. He was around 5'10" to 6 feet tall, had a mustache, and was shirtless.  He was muscular with tattoos on his arms, and when he began to walk quickly towards me, I froze.  

I knew I was in real danger. 

No longer than it had taken me to process my thoughts, a black and white cruiser screamed in between us. The guy turned fast on his heels and got back into his truck and took off.  

The officer told me to get in, and he'd take me home. He said he'd seen me walking along the road and had been checking on me occasionally.

He said I should be careful because there's been a lot of abductions around "here lately."

I never once saw any cars, let alone a police car on that road.

That evening I told my sister about what had happened, and she said that she had been worried about me all day. Maybe she felt my danger.

Fast forward 30 years.

I was watching a program on TV about serial killers, and to my horror, I recognized him.  His name was James Gregory Marlow, and he called himself, "The Folsom Wolf."  According to the program, and article, I read shortly after that, he and his girlfriend, Cynthia Coffman had been kidnapping woman in that area at that time and even had buried one of their victims in that same vineyard.  He had also borrowed a white pickup truck from his brother in law.

It gives me shivers to think of how my family and I used to joke about bodies being buried there. 

Little did we know.  My family might still be wondering what happened to me.

The thing that haunts me the most is that if she had been in the truck with him, I might have taken that ride.

All this time I believed he was put to death for his crimes in 1991, however, it has just come to light that his sentence was commuted and he still to this day sits on death row.  

If you think it can't happen to you, your daughters or someone you love, think again...